When
I got into the magazine biz, I had no experience handling small powerboats.
This was a problem for lots of reasons, but one stuck out. Since the credentials
of new, up-and-coming marine writers are of some interest to buyers and
manufacturers of boats, as well as readers, word spread not long after
I was first hired: ol' Bill's a former commercial seafarer
with a big, bluewater ticket and a sextant in his sea bag. Could such
a resume belong to anybody but a magnificent close-quarters handler of
bowriders, sportboats, and other Lilliputian craft?

The
answer was gloomy. Not only had the Almighty failed to provide me with
any small-boat-handling experience during my seafaring career, but He,
She, or It had handicapped me with a couple of personality quirks that'll
mess up the maneuvering of just about any vessel, of any size, at any
time. Perfectionism came first. I figured my helmsmanship had to be flawless
all the time, even when I didn't know what I was doing. The second
was related: anxiety. I was terrorized by the seeming flightiness of small
boats around docks and slips. When coupled with perfectionism, this put
me under just a little pressure.

An illustrative
story. It took place 15 years ago in a big New England marina I don't
have the guts to name, since most of the witnesses and participants are
undoubtedly still alive and reading marine magazines. Things got off to
an innocuous start. I helped my wife into the passenger seat of a high-speed
sportboat on loan to me for the summer. Then, upon sliding in behind the
steering wheel and cranking our 502-cubic inch V-8, I flicked a glance
toward the fuel gauge, and it registered--zip!

Fear
took possession of my psyche. It was Saturday, almost noon. The fuel dock
was crowded with people and fraught with the copious comings and goings
of other boats. Why hadn't I filled the tank during one of the lightly
trafficked evenings earlier in the week, to avoid public humiliation?
Why? Why? Why?

Our
slip was buried at the end of a long, convoluted fairway, seemingly miles
from where we needed to go. Moreover, by some fickle twist of fate, the
owner of the marina, a woman with enviable small-boat-handling skills,
happened to be standing near the gas pumps, talking with a guy who was
big in the Coast Guard Auxiliary. He was a helluva boat handler, too.

"Do
we have to buy gas?" queried my wife with foreboding. She'd
observed my maneuvering techniques with the sportboat before, and she
was starting to see just how congested and theater-like the fuel dock
was. She smelled fear on me, I'm sure of it.

Getting
out of the slip bow-first was a snap--getting back in, stern-first,
was the challenge. We cruised the fairway, zigzagging gingerly past bow
pulpits and stainless steel props, while I kept a weather eye on the traffic
at the fuel dock. A big, fat, aft-cabin cruiser was just finishing up
and would shortly leave an open spot, although a fishboat with twin outboards
was approaching, apparently intent on laying claim. I throttled up slightly.

"Why
are you going so fast?" demanded my wife, launching a string of
nervous, fast-paced interrogatives. "Why don't you call the
fuel dock and let them know you're coming? Why did you come so close
to that last propeller? Why aren't you wearing a life jacket? Why
do they call them PFDs now?"